


You See Me

by Fadesintothewest



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Tolkien Secret Santa 2019, tss2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21933688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: A snippet into  a moment between Maedhros and Fingon post Thangorodrim.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	You See Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gemennair](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=gemennair).



> This is a Tolkien Secret Santa Gift for gemennair.

**You See Me**

Maedhros, not yet known by that name, survived unimaginable torture, but of all those closest to him, Fingon was the one who could see that dark place and sit with it, for he too was irrevocably changed by the 30 year crossing of the ice: a terror unto itself. Fingon’s rescue of Maedhros was born of that terrible Journey. Though the Noldor were children another Journey, it was the Grinding Ice that would forever mark Fingolfin’s host, rendering them with a difference the Fëanorians would notice upon their meetings. And the Noldor would cling to the culture of the Ice as testament and memory of the price they paid, of those perished, and of what was lost to all of them.

In Endórë they were quicker to find joy though it was measured and deep and revered. The Noldor greeted their new lands with enthusiasm and a gratefulness that allowed their bond to the green fey magic of Endórë grow strong quick, but they were also a melancholy people. Both the joy and melancholy shaped the path of their resilience and bravery and the shape of faerie that came to be wholly of Fingolfin’s host.

For nothing it was said that Fingolfin’s people were steadfast and strong and less they looked down upon their elven neighbors’ than their kin that crossed on boats. Not because they were better than Fëanáro’s host, but for the humility they were forced to encounter being reduced from the mighty Noldor of Tirion to a people of survival, of exodus.

Fingon, some would later say, achieved the unimaginable when he rescued Maedhros from Morgoth’s prison, but for his people, Fingon’s act was no surprise. Heroic, indeed, but for the humility and quietness learned as lesson on the ice. And for those lessons they were brave and fiery for they needed to keep the inner fire stoked.

The same would be said of Maedhros, his inner flame so bright, his courage not trivial, and his mind aware of the world and the darkness in it, in ways that some would claim witchcraft.

But theirs was a story of Faerie and in this world all that is fey diminishes and we are the worse for it, but some nights and some days—perhaps the longest night or a day of remarkable length—one can hear the faintest song of wind and tree and find a moment in time, from long, long, ago.

)()()()(

Maedhros’ spoke to his friend, “I want to see it.” No question in his voice, sure that Fingon would answer. 

Fingon obliged. After all, the healers had all insisted that Maedhros start moving as soon as possible as this would enable quicker healing. Elven bodies took to healing in strange ways, Men would later say. Sadly it was because most men, though not all, never heard the song of a tree.

Maedhros walked to the window in his room with Fingon’s help. Maedhros’ eyes fell upon the tree outside his window. Maedhros gasped at the site of the large evergreen, sending him into a coughing fit.

“Steady,” Fingon soothed, trying to sit him down, but Maedhros waved him away, pointing to the window. “Tree,” he directed. Maedhros also kept the healers advice in mind: to take time with Endórë and find healing in her for she would be his strength.

Fingon steadied Maedhros by the window bringing a chair with him so Maedhros could sit if needed. Once more Maedhros let his eyes fall on the evergreen. “I never thought I’d see one again,” he whispered. He needed Fingon to understand, to let him witness this great being.

“I do understand,” Fingon answered, his voice quiet, just registering over the peculiar silence wedded to freshly fallen snow, remembering the first trees he witnessed when they crossed into Endórë. Maedhros squeezed Fingon’s hand. Fingon offered an ode, moved by Maedhros’ emotion with green things: “A great crown of green, a rustle in the breeze, she stands a queen. Her language at ease, she welcomes you, rejoices in your smile.”

Maedhros was smiling. Fingon still had poetry in him! But it was more than poetry, it was faerie. All of it! Fingon’s words, the tree, the snow. Closing his eyes, Maedhros heard the tree’s welcome. It was clean and clear, her song like a million voices raised in joy. Through her Maedhros heard Endórë’s heart- beating, singing, giving him strength. He breathed in her greenness and felt a joy. What a strange thing this joy was, but Tree would not have it otherwise. The winterberries joined in, their wailing harmonies reaching skyward until they met the blue of the horizon. The wind whipped up Tree’s dance, her feet stomping on the ground. It was a song for Maedhros, a healing song, reminding him that Endórë too knew pain, but always, she endured, and in her bosom she would hold space for her children, succor them. Tree’s branches shook her needles like a shawl, shimmering, shouting. Joy, such easy joy.

Fingon was gladdened by the song the Tree gifted Maedhros. It was a welcome song, a healing song. And just perhaps Fingon’s words were more than a poem. Indeed they were more like a conjuring, a gentle request for the great tree to find pity upon them.

A child near the Tree was overcome with the need to dance. He bounced gently on his feet, his body bending like a tree in the wind to the beat of Tree’s song. Another child added her feet to the dance. Together they jumped and shuffled about the tree, under the great branches. “A healing,” Fingon whispered, in awe of Endórë’s ability to remind them they were the Eldalië. Maedrhos tapped his finger on the window sill, Endórë’s rhythm contagious. His eyes were locked on the tree.

There was now a throng of children gathered under Tree. They raised their voice in song, finding harmony with the growing things of winter, letting the wind guide their movement. The tree needles rustled, dancing with the children, Endórë’s song reminding Maedhros to find himself anew. From ashes, from death, life comes, the memory of the mother tree roots manifested in song. Maedhros shuddered. Tree’s song gave way to a shimmering whisper, the quiet of nature that was but a reminder of the great songs just beneath the surface, all wedded to one another by a silvery system of roots that coursed with life. Maedhros witnessed the strength of Endórë in her song and he drank it for she gave it freely to her children in need and to those who knew how to listen. And in the dancing there was healing. Tree and root shouted their song, insisting to be heard. Wind whipped up her feet and hopped on the horizon and the white snow sizzled as if on a frying pan, its buzzing energy a dance. Maedhros stood at his window watching the dancing, felt the song deep in his bones, welcomed the weaving together of his being by the harmonies of life. It was piecing him back together, filling in those parts of his fëa that Morgoth had taken from him. From the blade of dormant grass to the worms slumbering in the ground, Maedrhos recognized his own part of this story. In this moment he understood what he must do, for all of them.

To his side, Maedhros heard Fingon laughing. “Go,” Maedhros spoke, urging Fingon to join in the dance under the Tree, selfishly wanting to see Fingon partake in such joy. Instead Fingon started skipping around Maedhros, his boots moving in rhythm to earth’s song. It was a new dance: the pattern of birds, of deer, of grasses swaying in the wind mimicked in the grace of Fingon’s movement. Fingon took Maedhros’ hand, holding it up, dancing reverently before Maedhros. It was an offering. Maedhros was bewildered. His eyes filled with tears that had long ago abandoned him, but were now returned.

Fingon sang, harmonizing with Tree’s song, his eyes locked on those of one he previously believed was gone to him, and yet here was Maedhros, the song of Endórë rendering him beautiful in a way Fingon could not have perceived before. Fingon paused. Maedhros stood still, but managed a smile to let his friend know he was okay. Fingon gently took hold of the bandaged arm, and more miraculously, Maedhros allowed it. Fingon brought his forehead to Maedhros’ own. “I see you,” Fingon breathed. Maedhros stood silently, Fingon’s words a prayer. Fingon stepped back, saying again, “I see you.”

Maedhros stood taller, his eyes wet with tears, choosing this moment to offer his own words, a testimony of sorts: “As only you can. And I see you.”

“As only you can,” Fingon replied, his bright blue eyes shining with the light of the imperishable flame.

They stood facing one another, Tree also witness. And she would later tell her younglings of this moment, of words that carried the weight of magic, of kinship. The memory of that exchange would become a part of Endórë’s own reckoning of all the creatures big and small she held in her bosom.

After a moment, Fingon broke the spell and moved Maedhros to sit. Fingon moved another chair and sat next to Maedhros. The two observed Tree until the sun set and moon rose, Fingon periodically helping Maedhros adjust his position, bringing him tea and food.

The night that greeted them was bright with the moon’s reflection on the snow. Fingon rose from his seat and offered Maedhros his hand. Without a word, Maedhros took it. Fingon helped him change. For once, it seemed to Maedhros, his arms ached less. 

Fingon noticed too. “Your arms are nimbler.” Fingon helped Maedhros settle into his bed.

A deep comfort settled over Maedhros. Looking up at Fingon who was fussing over him, Maedhros shared, “I know what I must do though it pains me for what it means for you.”

Fingon paused his work of tucking Maedhros in. “You are bound by an oath and father and I are bound to our people. I understand.” Fingolfin would be king, was king.

Maedhros relaxed, his body sinking into the bed. _You see me_ , he shared wordlessly with Fingon.

Fingon’s breath caught in his throat. Moving his face inches from Maedhros so their noses touched, Fingon sighed. He dared not speak aloud. He did not imagine he could stop himself from crying. So saying not a word, Fingon allowed the ice in the blue of his eyes let Maedhros know that Fingon indeed saw him, understood Maedhros, even his deepest, darkest self.

Fingon loved him still. And Maedhros loved him more.

)()()()(

Ages after the story of Maedhros’ survival many would marvel at his recovery, wonder at the ability of the elven body to become stronger, doubt Maedhros’ recovery. Some would name it miraculous, but to be an elf, to know an elf, one would recognize there was nothing miraculous about it. Perhaps something magical, but magic is not a miracle for it is wielded, has its own language, its own ways of being. And though theirs—Fingon and Maedhros—was a sad fate, it is recorded in the annals of faerie, and there it shall remain until such a time the longest night and the longest day meet, upon a hilltop, and those that died there long ago will come forth and the memory of their names will be spoken into the wind. You will hear it then, their names. Thus your burden and your charge, after such a witnessing of names long dead, will be to hear Endórë once more, as the lovers did so many, many ages yore.

Fingon loves him still. And Maedhros loves him more.

Onward, onward, into winter’s quiet and henceforward to summer’s rain, your journey stretches to the world’s end, beyond and onward into faerie wend.


End file.
